


Barbecue Saucy

by Nausicaa_E



Category: Awful Hospital (Webcomic)
Genre: Edging, Other, ambiguous genitalia, excessive meat metaphors, i didn't write it that way but you could read it as feederism, magic barbecue strap-on, the imp of the perverse is responsible for all of this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 10:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16830745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nausicaa_E/pseuds/Nausicaa_E
Summary: well, yes, BBQ Girll would definitely kill you and make you into hamburgers, but she's also very sexy,





	Barbecue Saucy

“ _Heeeeeeeey~_ , umamicheeks, ;),” she says, and your heart skips a beat even as you puzzle over the fact that you could hear her say an emoticon. “Here for the special of the dvvv///y?”

You nod, gulping. You probably should have expected something like this when you commented on how the phrase “fill you with my meat” was an innuendo to the kind of perceptoid that you are, but seeing her like this, well … _hot dog_.

You resist complimenting her rack with a Herculean effort – dirty talk has never gone well for you, no matter how tantalizing an opportunity the rack of ribs wrapped around her crotch offers for a joke. Instead, you scoot closer to her, disrobing with no more awkwardness than might be expected. She places a smooth metal hand on your shoulder, brushing the tips of her claws along your ear and neck. A little gasp climbs out of you, followed by several more as she continues to play along your sensitive points.

You nuzzle against her, feeling her furnace heat through her shirt; the warmth spreads through your body, loosening your limbs. She lifts your head up towards her, claws grazing a sensitive spot under your chin you hadn’t realized was sensitive; she clonks into your face with a sweltering, steely kiss. She reaches her other hand across, placing it on your crotch and fluttering her claws with slice-and-dice precision. You wriggle and shudder at her touch, and you pull away from the kiss panting heavily. Her smile grows broader. (Is it painted on? You’re not sure, but the kiss is warm all the same.)

“You building up an _appetite_ , clamparts?~” You nod, and she shifts position, sending you down between her legs. The biggest rib (or maybe a baculum, in this context) pokes jauntily up between them, barbecue sauce flowing down it, from some unknowable source at its tip, and you might laugh if you weren’t so enthralled by it – by her – by the smell, by the heat, by the firm grip on your shoulder, one claw still toying with your ear. You swallow again. It’s not like you don’t open your mouth this wide to engulf regular, non-sexual barbecue …

You lick along her length, and steam hisses out from the top of her head, which beams into your head as a good sign. She tastes like your dad’s barbecue sauce recipe, and you’re not sure which unnerves you more – that she tastes like the barbecue sauce recipe of the dad of whoever is sampling the goods, or that she tastes like the barbecue sauce of your dad, in particular. Your dad’s barbecue sauce was good, though, and her thighs press you tightly into place, hot and heavy. You lick further; she makes little sizzling noises, which again communicate her appreciation.

When you break away to pull in another breath, she looks down at you. “Aww, flattered you’re taking the time to savor it, whistlepig, but don’t be afraid to dig in!”

“So, wait – I’m –” You hesitate, juggling embarrassment and confusion. “I’m – you want me to _actually_ eat it?”

“’Course! That’s whatcha s’posed to do with A REAL TASTE OF FOOD!”

… Yeah, you’re really not sure why you thought her concept of sexual stimulation would resemble yours, and the barbecue sauce has given you a mighty hankering for ribs. You bite down, and she whistles like a freight train. The flesh falls right away from the bone, tender, delicious, suffused with sauce to exactly the right degree, endlessly regrowing, AN UNENDING DREAM OF MEAT … Her claws skitter up and down your back as you dig in, steam venting faster and faster. “ _Good_ little cutlet…” she says, slowly, squirming as you dine. You beam up at her, barbecue sauce dripping down your chin, and this particular snack, at least, smiles back.

It might be something in the sauce, or it could just be the heat and constant caresses that have you growing needier and needier, and when you sit up and pause to digest, you’re only too happy to accept when she offers to hold you close. You don’t even mind the definitely uncomfortable heat emanating from her chest.

You feel each other for a while, you exploring her molded steel curves and she tenderly poking at your soft flesh. You kiss her again, and she reaches between your legs, feeling you up like an extremely passionate meat thermometer. Almost as soon as that metaphor pops into your head, she asks, “Does the turkey want me to test how well done it is?”

You shiver, and nod. “G-go slowly. Wouldn’t want to … ruin the bird.”

“Good thinking, sous-chef!” One claw slowly probes inside you, hot and hard, slick with grease whose origins you don’t currently care about. You moan, accidentally getting a little of the ground meat that spills from her dome like hair in your mouth, and it’s hot, and flavorful, and you jerk about like you’re being sauteed as she slips deeper inside you.

Her curved, smooth claw thrusts in and out of you with almost no resistance at all, and she makes it go deeper each time, stretching you open slowly but surely. You wriggle around her claw as it sends you closer to the edge, each time it hits a particularly sensitive spot a breathtaking surprise.

And then – she stops, claw still deep in you, and her body cools, and so do you. She presses her other claw to your lips, and her stillness is unbearable.

You’d ask how she knew you were into edging, but after a bit of secondary consideration, you realize that you _really don’t want to know_.

She warms again, after an unquantifiable amount of t%%@%me, and repeats the process, again pushing her tapered claw inexorably inward. This t%%@%me, you’re even shorter of breath, you wriggle even more, and she seems to find even more sensitive spots inside you. She turns you, by inches, into a needy, horny wreck. You run through layers and layers together; you feel your stamina ebb, but there’s always more meat with which you can refresh yourself. You think the process only goes through one more iteration before she finally draws wholly out of you, leaving you feeling as empty as a cleaned bird. You’re dripping with more than just grease, and for a moment, you can’t even speak.

“Mmm-hmmm! I’d say you’re definitely _well done_ , gutpuppy!” she coos. “So – you wanna make a new spin on the Cthurkey, _hmmmmmmmm~_?”

She shifts, rib dragging against your thigh. “Hhhhhhhh… y-yes … yes _please_ …”

“Just a moment!” You watch in a bit of horrified fascination as a … casing … appears over her rib. Well, they used to make condoms out of lambskin, right? This is … well, this is probably whatever intestine they use to make sausage casing, but it’s … probably sterile, and you appreciate her commitment to safety nonetheless.

You reposition yourself in her lap, and she squeezes you with her claws, her firm grip helping to spread you wide as her rib slowly slides into you. You nestle into her shoulder, and more hot meat fills you, grease and _jus_ flowing down your throat as you tuck in, and you let out little whimpers through your full mouth.

She jets steam in short bursts, pressing into you; she whispers, between thrusts, about how _good_ you feel, and how you’re an _excellent_ kitchen partner, and, well, if she says things about how good you’re going to taste, that comes with the territory. (It might actually be turning you on a little more, but you’re not going to contemplate that right n//c%w.) She takes her time, slowly and steadily making sure you can feel every inch of her with the inexorable care of a rotisserie. The squarish shape of the rib is strange, but she’s carved out _just_ the right space for it inside you with her teasing claw.

When she bottoms out, the hard nub of bone pushes hard against something inside you, and you vent the arousal in which you’ve marinaded for so long in a searing orgasm. You drip messily onto her metal lap, a farrago of thanks spilling from your lips.

She hisses, long and low, and picks up her pace, stuffing you like a Thanksgiving turkey. You’re still riding out your orgasm as she pounds you with the force of a tenderizer. She’s clearly gotten close herself, and it doesn’t take long before you feel her erupt inside you, hot barbecue sauce pulsing against the casing as she lets loose another freight-train whistle, and you moan along with her.

You lie for a t%%@%me beside her, enjoying the warmth of each other’s bodies and the aftertaste of your orgasms. She kisses you on the forehead, stroking your hair. “Well, skinhorse, I think we’ve thoroughly disproved the idea that you shouldn’t play with your food.”

You laugh, and snuggle closer. “And I’d say this is meat that one simply _cannot_ beat.”

She smiles, closing her eyes. “Awwww, ain’t you a darling.”

“You too.”

* * *

PROBABLY-MOMENT-RUINING EPILOGUE:

A thought occurs to you. “I … wait, you were joking when you described me as food?”

“Oh, of course I was!” She gives a tinny laugh, and then says something just on the edge of your range of hearing that sounds a hell of a lot like _“I wasn’t.”_

She gives all appearance of dozing, and she’s an excellent big spoon, but it takes you a long while to close your eyes.


End file.
